Avalanche
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series, the tag for 'Croatoan', 2x9. Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episodes 'Croatoan' and 'Hunted', it belong to Eric Kripke, John Shiban, and Raelle Tucker.  
**

**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)**

* * *

Dean's pissed.

Sam could tell that from a mile away, but he's right there beside him in the car, and it's like being too close to the sun. Putting aside all the thoughts still running frantically through Sam's mind over everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours – something he's getting much better at doing, the more time he spends around Dean – Sam is almost surprised his brother is still vertical after the god damn rollercoaster of crap that was the last day of their lives. Sam hates it, _hates_ it, when a hunt ends with even one question unanswered, let alone the multitude of them that went unanswered in this one. Where the virus came from, why that town was targeted, where all the infected people went, why the _hell_ Sam was the only one who seemed to be immune to it. He can't even think about it. It's making his head hurt too much. But he knows it's worse for Dean.

Dean always had that thing where keeping Sam safe is his whole reason for breathing, and if he ever can't, Sam knows his brother feels like he's completely failed at life. He also knows Dean tends to overreact, especially when it comes to Sam, so he's steeling himself for whatever fallout he knows is coming. Back at the clinic, Dean had been managing to hold himself together relatively well considering the circumstances, but now that they're on the road again, far enough away from the hunt that Dean can slip out of his soldier suit and let himself feel all the things he had to keep on lockdown while they were in the middle of everything, Sam can tell it's slowly starting to hit him how close they came to the end of Sam's life. Sam knows how that feels, he's been inches away from having Dean taken from him too many times to count, and he knows how awful it is. He knows that sickening feeling, when his gut twists and his mind races and, even hours later, his heart still jack-hammers against his ribcage when he thinks that one step in the wrong direction, one moment in time going the opposite way, could've been the difference between Dean living or dying. So if – _when_ – Dean does lose it, Sam won't exactly be able to blame him. Doesn't mean he's looking forward to it.

Although really, it isn't like Dean didn't already lose it once or twice on this one. Before the doctor confirmed that Sam wasn't infected, Sam doesn't think he's ever seen Dean so out of control. He's never seen Dean scream at almost total strangers like that, and he's never seen Dean look as utterly hopeless as he did when he locked them both in that room. He'd been fully prepared for the fact that if Sam turned like the others did, he would have attacked Dean and then they probably would have killed each other. Dean even seemed _okay_ with it. It's as close to him calling quits as Sam's ever seen, and it terrified him. More than the virus and being infected and that he came so close to dying and everything. Sam isn't stupid, he knows how enormous what happened is, that it can't mean anything good and that it probably has something to do with the demon and whatever plans he has for Sam and all the other psychics – _freaks_, Sam tries not to call them, and himself, in his head – but again, if Sam thinks about it, he'll explode. It's too big, too scary, too important. And, at the moment, it isn't nearly as troubling as the fact that Dean was so willing to just give up like that. Dean never gives up. Sam's whole life, Dean's always been the one determined to keep on fighting, no matter what the job threw at them. Sam doesn't know how to react to a Dean who isn't like that anymore.

For a long time, Dean just drives, and Sam doesn't say anything about it. There's a small corner of his brain that's itching to talk about it, to lay everything out and see if they can figure out what the hell is going on, but mostly Sam knows that wouldn't do any good. They don't have any more information today than they did yesterday, just most questions they have no way of answering. And, Sam's figured out after so many years of knowing Dean better than he knows himself, that sometimes it's better to just leave him alone and let him work things out in his own head. Sam remembers the look on Dean's face when the Sergeant was threatening to shoot him; it was so intense it was scary and Sam doesn't really want to open that can of worms up again because he's pretty sure neither of them would like what they find.

Eventually, though, Dean must get tired of endless stretches of dull, straight, grey pavement, and he stops at a gas station to pick up a six-pack and then pulls the Impala off the road and into a little manmade clearing a ways off from the highway. There's an old wooden fence along the bank of a wide river – Sam doesn't know what river, he wasn't paying attention when they were driving and isn't even sure what direction they were heading – and there are autumn leaves scattered on the ground from a huge tree. Dean gets out the second he puts the car into park and tosses the keys onto the dash, and Sam gets out too, watching warily as Dean stalks around the front of the Impala to Sam's side.

Snarling, Dean shoves Sam roughly into the side of the car, shouting, "Don't you _ever_ scare me like that again!" as he does.

Sam's elbow connects painfully with the window as he bounces against the door, and he swears as little twinges shoot up and down his arm. "What the hell, Dean!"

"I mean it!" Dean growls. "You ever do something like that again, I'll fuckin' kill you myself, you hear me?"

He _doesn't_ mean it, Sam knows that, and there's a part of him that wants to get right back in Dean's face and point out how everything that happened on this complete debacle of a hunt isn't exactly his fault, but he doesn't. He just shakes his arm a little to get the tingling in his elbow to stop, and watches as Dean just stands there and fumes.

"You done?" he asks in irritation.

"I'm not even _close_ to done!" Dean rants. "You don't even know! How much I – and you – and they were gonna – fuck, Sam!"

Sam doesn't respond, because nothing he could say right now would be the right thing. He just sighs and gives Dean a look that means _what the hell d'you want me to do about it?_, which seems to defuse Dean just a little bit. He turns away, his shoulders tense and a muscle working in his neck, but then he turns back and jogs the few steps it takes to get right into Sam's space. He grabs the sides of Sam's face without warning and pulls him down into a brutal kiss, his lips quick and demanding against Sam's and his hands sliding immediately up into Sam's hair and tugging on it, just this side of painful. Sam kisses him back without even thinking about it, but Dean pulls away again much sooner than Sam would like.

"Shit," Dean breathes. "Been wantin' to do that all damn day."

Sam tries to lean back to see Dean's face, but Dean tightens his grip on the back of Sam's neck and keeps their foreheads together, so Sam just says, "Dean."

"You don't know," Dean repeats harshly, sniffing and shaking his head. "Got no idea. Seein' you so upset like that, seein' you cry, fuckin' makes me _ache_ inside. Always has, since the fuckin' day you were born. Don't know what the hell I would'a done, if you'd …"

"Dean," Sam says again, but this time it means something different. He pushes his hands up under the hem of Dean's shirt, splaying them wide over the warm skin of Dean's lower back. "I'm okay. I'm right here, I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Dean grinds out. "Being the only person in a whole friggin' _town_ who's immune to some crazy demon virus is pretty god damn far from fine."

Sam closes his eyes and sighs tiredly. "I know."

He kisses Dean, meaning to keep it gentle and reassuring but the moment their lips touch, Dean gets crazy again. He pushes Sam back into the steel of the Impala and crowds up against him, slotting the hard line of his body against Sam's. Sam feels himself start to harden instantly as Dean's tongue dips into his mouth and their hips rub together, but he's still keenly aware of where they are. It isn't exactly the first time they've ever done anything outside of the safety of a locked motel room. There have been times when they've been too drunk and horny to make it farther than the alley outside of a bar, and there was that time a few months back when Sam let Dean fuck him on the hood of the Impala – which Sam still dreams about sometimes because _shit_ that was hot – but drunken hand-jobs in a dirty back alley in the middle of the night is a pretty far cry from a public park at ten-thirty in the morning.

Sam moans a little as Dean rocks his thigh up between his legs, but he still makes himself say, "C'mon, not here."

"Don't care."

Shoving gently at Dean's shoulder, Sam makes a quiet noise of protest in his throat. He does want Dean; he kind of _always_ wants Dean, but even still. The worst that could've happened behind a bar is some completely intoxicated trucker stumbling upon them while he looked for a spot to piss, saying "whoops", and stumbling back away. Here, anyone could, and possibly _will_, see them. People they wouldn't exactly want seeing them, too – like families with small children or an elderly couple out for a morning stroll. But Dean pushes Sam's jacket off, completely ignoring Sam's objections. He kisses Sam roughly, possessively, his hands hot and insistent over Sam's chest and Sam all but melts under his touch. He knows what Dean's been through, knows what it feels like to think he's going to lose the most important person in his world, and he knows what he went through himself too. Thinking he was going to die, thinking he'd be leaving Dean all alone, never getting to see him smile or hear him laugh or feel Dean's body beneath his – Sam would be lying if he said he wasn't a little crazy for it right now too.

So he gives in. Honestly, he'll probably always give in to Dean, in one way or another. He maybe should care more about that than he does, but Dean's lips on his neck make him forget everything else. Sam slides his arms back around Dean's waist, pulling him in closer so their groins are pressed together. The hot, hard outline of Dean's cock bumps against Sam's through their clothes, and heat spreads along Sam's veins. He ducks down to capture Dean's lips again, pushing his fingers below the waistband of Dean's boxers so he can palm Dean's ass and grind against him. The friction is maddening but not quite enough, and Dean huffs impatiently and shoves a hand between them, struggling with the fly on Sam's jeans. Sam helps him, getting the button undone and the zipper down and then Dean's purposefully rubbing Sam's cock through his underwear and in that moment Sam can't ever remember anything feeling so good.

Dean's muttering something as he messily mouths along Sam's jaw, something along the lines of, "Fuckin' demons," and "Show them a thing or two," but Sam's not really paying attention. Dean pulls Sam's boxers down, tucks them just under his balls, and then curls his fingers around Sam's cock and strokes, hard and fast. His palm is rough and the slide is hurried and dry and it almost hurts, but at the same time it feels so _fucking_ good Sam can barely think straight. He dips his head forward, attaching his lips to Dean's neck and sucking, as he pushes his own hand into Dean's pants and strips his brother's cock just as furiously. He circles his palm around the slippery-wet crown, spreading pre-come down over the shaft and squeezing on the upstroke the way he knows Dean likes it, and Dean groans appreciatively.

"Got another thing _fuckin'_ comin' if they think they can take you away from me that easily," Dean growls, and Sam shudders as Dean's gravel-rough and arousal-thick voice sends vibrations down his spine. He won't say it out loud, because it would just make Dean's mother-hen tendencies worse, but sometimes it really turns Sam on, how fiercely protective his brother is of him.

He squeezes hard around his handful of Dean's cock in response, digging his thumb into the spot under the head, and Dean swears softly and speeds up his movements. The pressure of his hand on Sam's aching cock is _just _right – Dean's always known exactly how to work him to get him closer to the edge faster than anybody else – and he drops his other hand down and gently kneads Sam's balls between his fingers. Swelteringly hot pleasure overwhelms Sam, blurring his vision around the edges and narrowing his whole world down to how Dean's hands feel on him, big and warm and so good he never wants it to end. It's quick and dirty and consuming when he comes, heat blooming all over his body, and Dean follows him close behind. Sam has at least enough blood left in his brain to remember to catch most of their combined release in his free hand so it won't get all over their clothes, but other then that, he just gives himself over to the bliss as Dean keeps stroking him slow and firm, working him through it in a way that's almost nurturing. Dean's whole _take care of Sammy_ thing gets twisted up in this thing between them sometimes, and secretly, that turns Sam on too.

Dean's still pressing hot, wet kisses to Sam's neck when he comes back to himself, and Sam sighs happily, blood still running thick and warm through his veins. He kisses Dean's temple, nudging his nose against the side of Dean's face so he'll lift his head back up so their lips can meet in a proper kiss. Dean kisses him languidly, tongue swirling slowly around Sam's, so sweet and perfect it pisses Sam off a little when he's forced to remember that they're still out in the open where anyone could see them. Reluctantly, he pulls away from his brother with one last kiss, and tucks himself back into his pants while Dean takes a deep breath and does the same.

He reaches through the open window into the glove box, handing Sam a little stack of fast food napkins so he can wipe off his hand, which Sam does. There's a funny look on Dean's face as he watches Sam pick his jacket up off the ground and put it back on; it's caught somewhere between post-orgasmic contentment and still lingering sadness and worry from before. Sam wants to say something about it, but when he catches his brother's eye, Dean just shakes his head a little and Sam understands it isn't the right time for that conversation.

Instead, he accepts the beer Dean offers him from the back seat, and then he follows Dean over to the fence. Dean twists the top off his bottle and flicks it into the river, and Sam copies the action except he puts the bottle-cap into his pocket. He'll find a garbage can later. Without thinking or looking, he tilts the bottle towards Dean and Dean clinks his against it, and then Sam takes a sip while he watches Dean do the same out of the corner of his eye. For a few long minutes, they just stand there in silence, watching the river. Dean leans his elbows down on the top rail of the fence, and Sam turns around and climbs up so he's sitting on it. There are a lot of things he wants to say, and just as many things he thinks he _should_ say but the right words are escaping him. Mostly, Sam just wants to let them enjoy this small moment of peacefulness, and then find a motel and spend the rest of the day wrapped around Dean, showing each other that they're both still alive because that always works better than words do. But still, there're all those nagging thoughts in the back of his mind about how much Dean scared him yesterday, and Sam can't let it go.

"So. Last night. You wanna tell me what the hell you were talkin' about?" Sam begins, aware that Dean probably won't give it up easily, but luckily, he's the more stubborn one of the two of them.

"What d'you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Sam asks with a small smile. "I mean, you said you were tired of the job. And that it wasn't just because of Dad."

"Forget it," Dean mumbles.

"No, I can't. No way."

"C'mon, man, I thought we were both gonna die. You can't hold that over me."

"No, no, no, no, you can't pull that crap with me, man," Sam says, shaking his head. "You're talking."

Dean laughs a little. "And what if I don't?"

"Then I guess … I'll just have to keep asking until you do."

Dean nods, and a slightly resigned look overtakes his features. "I don't know, man. Just think maybe we ought'a … go to the Grand Canyon."

Sam frowns and almost laughs. "What?"

"Yeah, you know, all this drivin' back and forth across the country, you know I've never been to the Grand Canyon? Or we could to go T.J. Or Hollywood! See if we could bang Lindsay Lohan," Dean jokes.

"You're not makin' any sense," Sam tells him.

"I just think we should take a break from all this. Why do we gotta get suck with all the responsibility, y'know? Why can't we live life a little bit?" Dean's tone is would-be-casual, but Sam sees through it.

"Why're you sayin' all this?"

For a just second, Dean looks like he's about to continue, but then he brings the bottle up to his lips and turns away.

"No, no, no, no, no," Sam says again, hopping down off the fence and following him. He really, really hates the thought that Dean's keeping something from him that's obviously causing him so much distress. "Dean, you're my brother, alright? So whatever weight you're carrying, let me help a little bit."

"I can't. I promised."

"_Who_?"

"Dad."

Sam frowns even more. Whatever that means, it can't be good. "What're you talking about?"

"Right before Dad died, he told me something. He told me something about you," Dean says, extremely reluctantly and Sam's heart beats just a little bit faster at the ominous look on his brother's face.

"What?"

Dean hesitates, so Sam pushes.

"Dean, what did he tell you?"

"He said that he – he wanted me to watch out for you. Take care'a you."

"He told you that a million times." Sam knows that's something Dad hadn't needed to say for years. Taking care of Sam is drawn on Dean's blueprints in permanent marker. Sam knows that better than anyone, from all the times he hasn't _wanted_ Dean to take care of him but Dean insists because he doesn't know how to stop.

"Well this time was different. He said that I had to … save you."

Sam frowns even deeper, and the sense of foreboding in his gut just twists around his insides even more. "Save me from what?"

"He just said that I had to save you. That nothing else mattered. And if I couldn't, I'd …"

"You'd _what_, Dean?"

"I'd have to kill you. He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy."

The look on his brother's face is one of complete anguish, but for a moment, Sam doesn't understand what Dean said. He repeats it to himself in his head a few times but the words don't make any sense, like Dean suddenly started speaking a language Sam isn't fluent in. Slowly, it starts to seep in, but although Sam understands what all the words mean, he still doesn't have the first clue what Dean's talking about. And that really, really scares him, in addition to the ice cold dread pulsing through his veins.

"Kill me. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," Dean mutters.

For whatever reason, that just makes it worse. Dean always knows. He's the older brother, he's _supposed_ to have all the answers. Something inside of Sam snaps. "I mean, he must've had some kinda reason for saying it, right? I mean, did he know the demon's plans for me? Am I supposed to go dark-side or something? What else did he say, Dean?"

"Nothin'. That's it, I swear."

"How could you not've told me this?" Sam yells, completely outraged along with the fear that's currently making origami swans out of his intestines.

"Because it was Dad and he begged me not to."

"Who cares? Take some responsibility for yourself, Dean! You had no right to keep this from me!" Sam shouts, his voice rumbling harshly in the silence around them. He really doesn't think he's ever been this furious with Dean before.

"You think I wanted this?" Dean fires back. "Huh? I wish to God he'd never opened his mouth! Then I wouldn't have to walk around with this screaming in my head all day!"

Sam turns away for a moment, clenching his jaw, because if he doesn't, he's seriously running the risk of punching Dean in the face. And he's never done that before. "We just gotta figure out what's goin' on, then, what the hell all this means."

"We do?" Dean asks quietly. "I've been thinkin' about this, I think we should just lay low, y'know? At least for a while? It'd be safer."

Sam gapes at him.

"And that way I could make sure …" Dean trails off and another wave of white-hot fury rolls through Sam.

"What?" he asks mockingly. "That I don't turn evil? That I don't turn into some kinda killer?"

"I never said that," Dean mumbles.

"Jeez, you're not careful, you will have to waste me one day, Dean," Sam says unfeelingly, and Dean glares.

"I _never_ said that!" he shouts. "Damn it, Sam, this whole thing is spinnin' outta control! Alright? You're – you're immune to some weirdo demon virus, and I don't even know _what_ the hell anymore!"

Sam takes a long drink from the beer bottle in his hand, but it tastes like ash in his mouth.

"And you're pissed at me, and I get it. That's fine, I deserve it," Dean continues. "But we lay low until we figure out our next move, okay?"

"Forget it," Sam grinds out.

"Sam, please, man. Hey, please," Dean says imploringly, smacking Sam lightly on the shoulder so he turns to face him again. "Just give me some time. Give me some time to think, okay, I'm begging you, here. Please. _Please_."

There's so much sadness and just sheer desperation in Dean's wide, green eyes, that as livid as he is, Sam can't bring himself to say no. He nods begrudgingly, and Dean sighs and says, "Thank you."

"Not doin' it for you. You're still an asshole," Sam grumbles mutinously. He sniffs and exhales heavily. The last few minutes were like a sudden tornado touching down and ripping everything Sam thought he knew to shreds. As if his life wasn't enough of a mess already lately. He's not sure he knows how to deal with this on top of everything else. "Fuck!" he shouts suddenly, the word tearing up and out of his chest completely beyond his control. He hurls the half-full bottle at the nearest fence post, where it shatters and sends beer and shards of brown glass in every direction.

"Sammy. Look, I'm sorry," Dean says, a placating tone to his voice, and that just pisses Sam off even more.

"How does that help at all?" he snaps.

"C'mon, just – just try to see it from my perspective! Do you have any idea how shitty it was to carry this around with me all this time? To have no clue what Dad meant or what he thought was gonna happen or anything? I've spent my whole god damn life trying to protect you from everything, tryin' to keep you safe, and now, for the first time, it's like there's a possibility, even if it's a tiny one, that I might not be able to! Try to imagine what that feels like for me!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this the part of the production where I'm supposed to feel _sorry_ for you?" Sam spits incredulously. "Well tough shit, because I don't! You lied to me!"

"No," Dean says slowly. "Technically, I just didn't tell you."

"That's not true and you know it!" Sam counters angrily. "The day we buried Dad, I asked you, point blank, if he said anything to you before he died. You said no! And then you _kept_ lying to me, for months! Every time I asked if you were okay, every time I said I felt like there was something you were hiding from me and you _promised_ me there wasn't!"

"Look, Dad said – "

"I don't give a shit what Dad said!" Sam explodes. "And you know what, you are at _least_ a decade too old to still be using that as an excuse, to still be saying 'my Dad told me to' like it's a legitimate reason for doing something! How could you _do_ this? We're supposed to be partners, man! Hell, more than that, we're supposed to be brothers!"

"I … I know," Dean says heavily. "You're right, okay? I thought I was protecting you by not telling you, I thought … it doesn't matter what I thought. The point is, it isn't right for me to keep things from you. Especially something like this. I hate that it took you almost dying for me to realize that, but I know it now, alright? I won't do it again."

Sam barely resists rolling his eyes. He doesn't believe that for a second. Dean may have good intentions, but treating Sam with kid-gloves is Dean's default setting. Sam's not even sure his brother knows how to _not_ act that way. He steps closer to the fence and leans down on it, resting his elbows on the wood. His head is spinning. His brain already felt like it was filled to capacity before all of this. He really doesn't know what to do, how to react, how to _feel_, about this latest disaster. It's all just too much.

"Are you really mad at me?" Dean asks quietly, from somewhere behind Sam.

"Yes," Sam answers.

It had to have been what Dean was expecting, but his voice still sounds sad and regretful when he says, "I hate that."

"Then don't lie to me anymore!" Sam cries, shaking his head a little in disbelief. He can't believe that even needs to be said out loud. That urge to hit Dean is creeping back, and Sam clenches his fists into balls so tight his nails dig into his palms.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers.

"I believe you. Doesn't make this go away."

Dean doesn't answer, but he moves in and places a tentative hand on the middle of Sam's back. Sam doesn't know why he does it, has no idea where his head is at right now, but he finds himself turning around and kissing Dean, stemming more from instinct than from an actual conscious decision to do it. It's soft and almost emotionless at first but then he deepens it, opening his mouth and pulling Dean in a little closer. Dean's lips are so familiar against his – there have been so many times when having Dean like this is the only thing that can make things right again for Sam, and he feels that, but he also feels it slipping away. The more complicated their lives get, the more it seems like Dean's big brother powers of making anything better are flickering out. When Sam leans back, he keeps his forehead resting against Dean's; his breath coming in harsh little pants that has nothing to do with the kiss. Even though it wasn't Sam's intention, that brief meeting of their lips felt strangely like a goodbye.

"What was that for?" Dean asks, like he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

Sam swallows, and his throat clicks audibly. "Because I love you. Even when you treat me like we aren't equals. Even when you've been a colossal jackass. I still love you."

"But?" Dean breathes. He probably knows it's coming before it does, and he isn't wrong.

"But I … I'm gonna need to not talk to you for a little while," Sam answers, his voice small and sad even in his own ears, even as it shakes with barely controlled anger. He pulls away from Dean and starts making his way back to the car, focusing on nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other because it's about the only thing he can actually control in that moment.

"We are equals," Dean says to Sam's back.

Sam turns around, and fixes Dean with a long look. It hurts him right down to his core, but he's never been more disappointed in his brother than he is right now.

"No we aren't," he answers softly, regretfully. "Not to you."


End file.
